


The Offer

by Brightbear



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightbear/pseuds/Brightbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Death-Eaters lose the war, Snape is awaiting trial when someone makes him an unexpected offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Offer

**Author's Note:**

> Written before the release of Deathly Hallows.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any part of that universe, it's all the creation of the wonderful J.K. Rowling.

The cellblock in the depths of the Ministry of Magic was badly lit. It seemed strange to offer the cover of darkness to the condemned. There was no knowing what plans could be hatched in the inky blackness. Severus Snape reflected wryly that the lighting was more likely to be for the comfort of their occasional visitors than for any practical reason to do with security. It was the type of logic which had been championed in the Ministry by Fudge himself, back when Fudge had been the Minister and still had some influence.

Each and every visitor could stand in the guttering light of the hallway and be illuminated. It was, Snape imagined, how they were able to distinguish themselves as the victors from the defeated Death Eaters who sat in the darkness behind bars. In most cases it was the only proof they had been on the winning side as most visitors had certainly never fought a day in their life. They had simply stayed out of it until the fighting was done and crowed about it later.

Snape shifted in his small cell and tried to ignore the mutterings of his fellow Death Eaters. There were few Death Eaters left now and the majority of those were already in Azkaban. Six of them, including Snape, still awaited trial and would probably join them soon. While the outcomes of the trials were predictable (Azkaban usually but the Dementor's Kiss had been used more than once), there were very few show-trials. The false imprisonment of Sirius Black seemed to hang heavy on the court. The day Stan Shunpike was released saw a cheering crowd greeting him at the door.

The new way of running the trials was partially to do with Barty Crouch's absence but mostly to do with the rise of the DA (Dumbledore's army, indeed!) within the ministry, and the new chairwitch of the Wizengamot. Death Eaters were allowed every opportunity to defend themselves passionately in a fair court. It helped the cause of justice but, in most cases, it made no difference to the outcome as they were buried them under a mountain of irrefutable evidence. Hermione Granger had always been a stickler for the rules.

The hallway door opened and three people appeared, silhouetted by the light. Snape studied them from the corner of his eye without seeming too interested. The red hair heralded the approach of one of the Weasleys and the nervous movement of the other suggested that it was Neville Longbottom. The person who led them was difficult to recognise. The stately dress-robes and the tightly bound hair were unfamiliar, yet she appeared young enough that Snape felt that he ought to know her. He was certain that she had been one of his students.

The three visitors marched down the hallway, ignoring the mutterings and insults from the most recently captured Death Eaters. Those Death Eaters who had already been down here for a while were more resigned or simply too weary to muster much of a response. Bellatrix Lestrange took a perverse pleasure in being the exception to that rule. Her hysterical laughter seemed to penetrate Longbottom's feigned deafness. He rounded on her abruptly, his wand raised.  
"Silencio," he snarled, with more guts behind it than he had ever shown in six years of classes with Snape.

Bellatrix fell silent. Snape could imagine her uncomprehending expression as her open mouth could make no audible sounds. It was not difficult to imagine her silently screeching as she tumbled closer to the madness that had been threatening ever since her time in Azkaban. The Weasley shook his head disapprovingly at Longbottom's use of a wand on an unarmed prisoner but made no move to undo the spell. The Weasley prompted a return to their march through the cellblock.

Snape was surprised when they finally stopped at his cell. The trials were being conducted in alphabetic order and Snape was by no means the next in line. He kept his surprise from his face and gave no sign to acknowledge the visitors. He recognised the voice of Ron Weasley as a silencing spell was cast to cover both Snape's cell and the three officials. They obviously had a matter to discuss that was not for the ears of Snape's fellow Death Eaters.

The woman stepped forward to the bars and even the way that Weasley and Longbottom stood at her back was familiar.  
"Professor Snape?" she asked quietly.  
The voice left no doubt that this young woman was Hermione Granger herself.  
"Skipping a few letters, are we? I'm honoured to be considered worthy of an earlier trial than the likes of Bellatrix Lestrange," said Snape softly, letting only a little venom creep into his voice.

Hermione regarded him with a familiar mix of nervousness and irritation. Snape was heartened to know that he could still instil fear in the younger generations, especially in young Gryffindors. A little harshness early in life tended to deflate the slightly pompous, the more foolhardy and the most dangerous of students before they could do any harm.

"I have a matter to discuss with you, Professor," she said clearly, the irritation conquering her nervousness.  
"Hasn't Hogwarts resumed its classes yet?" asked Snape softly.  
Hermione paused, confused.  
"Do you see my name on the list of staff currently employed by Headmistress McGonagall?" continued Snape silkily.  
Hermione's confusion resolved itself into an irritated frown.

"So, you are no longer a Professor," said Hermione. "Old habits die hard."  
"A decade of war should breed new habits, Miss Granger," he said harshly. "Now, if you're quite finished with you asinine presentation of a foolish little schoolgirl, perhaps you will tell you what little matter has driven you to the depths of the Ministry in search of conversation. Unless, of course, it's the simple urge to converse with someone with more than half a brain."

"Hmm," said Hermione without the slightest trace of irritation. "First of all, it's Mrs Granger. I might not have taken my husband's surname but I'm still a married woman. Secondly, I admit that I must be restrained from hexing McMillan into the next century every time he opens his mouth - how he ever graduated from Hogwarts is puzzling enough, never mind his entrance into the Ministy - but I have spent years building up friendships with some very smart people. I have dozens of friends who would gladly spare me the indignity of grovelling at the feet of a miserable, lonely old Death Eater who was once a respected teacher at one of the finest Schools of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the world."

"Well," said Snape dryly. "At least your time in the Ministry has trained your tongue."  
"Enough of this," said Hermione firmly. "I have a deal to offer you."  
"I don't want your pity," snarled Snape.  
Both Longbottom and Weasley took an involuntary step backwards at his tone. Hermione remained unmoved.

"Pity?" she asked, a fire kindling in her eyes that Snape did not recognise. "For you? The man who killed Dumbledore? I think not. I don't care whether or not he ordered you to do it..."  
Snape flinched, his breath catching in his throat.  
"Oh, yes," said Hermione icily. "I know about that. I still don't care if it was an assisted suicide, you still had a choice... and because of that you will get no forgiveness and no pity from me."

She stared at him with unblinking hatred and, for the first time, Snape appreciated that she was not a miss-sorted Ravenclaw but a true Gryffindor.  
"However," she continued in a low voice. "You have something we want. We want it badly enough to offer you an alternative to Azkaban."  
"The war is over," said Snape. "I fail to see how the inside scoop on the Death Eaters will be of any benefit to you."  
Hermione smiled mirthlessly, "Ah, Professor. Where is that famed Slytherin cunning? It is not your knowledge of the Death Eaters we're interested in."

Snape didn't bother to hide the smirk that blossomed.  
"You're in need of a Potions Master," he said silkily. "What's the matter? Slughorn not up to the task?"  
"He is occupied with other matters," said Hermione, in a fair imitation of Snape's silky drawl. "And we require a more long-term commitment, and when I say 'long-term', I mean decades."  
"Is that so?" said Snape.  
Hermione continued as if he hadn't spoken, "Are you familiar with the Death Eater base in Manchester?"

Snape's mouth curved into a wry smile, "Are you asking if I know of its existence or if I know about its _special projects_?"  
She looked down her nose at him in a manner that would have made old McGonagall proud.  
"It was a testing ground," Snape elaborated anyway. "For summoning spirits, ghosts or other inhuman creatures. Most of it involving Dark Magic and all of it dangerous and unpredictable."  
From Hermione's expression, this was not news. Snape's heart unexpectedly began to beat faster in his chest. He kept his expression disdainful but it seemed his body had decided to invest in hope without him. A part of him desperately wanted to do whatever it took to be free.

Another part of him held back. It was partly pride but also the shadow of Dumbledore's death that never lurked far from his memory. It was ironic that he killed the man he respected most because he did not want to lose that man's respect by failing to carry out Dumbledore's last request. The memory of the old headmaster's implacable gaze warred with the sickening vision of the elderly body flopping from the astronomy tower like some limp rag-doll.

When Snape had returned to the Death Eater camp as the Dark Lord's right hand man, it was only too easy to sabotage plan after plan without inviting suspicion. When the Dark Lord had fallen and the Aurors had come to mop up the last of the enemy, Snape lacked both the evidence and the will to have his true allegiances proved. He had killed Dumbledore and for this there was no forgiveness.

Hermione stood before him with all the facts to hand and she was judging him. She could not forgive him any more than he could forgive himself but she had still come to see him. She had not yet washed her hands of him and that fact signaled a hope that teased like a waving flag in the face of a raging bull.

The hope of being forgiven and being once more returned to the fold had taken hold in Snape's chest. He tried to shake it as practicality warned him of the chances of it being denied. It was information Hermione seemed to want and it was not something he could truly offer. He knew very few details of the experiments that had happened in Manchester. Snape might be able to provide some guidance in the de-commissioning of the base but he was more likely to be killed in the attempt.

"We found something there," said Hermione, as if they were exchanging gossip over tea and biscuits.  
She paused for a response but Snape did not rise to the bait.  
"A former member of the Order of the Phoenix," she continued. "Did you know he was there?"  
Snape frowned but he couldn't think with his heart thumping in his chest. He knew that several members of the Order had been murdered and buried in a Manchester well but he doubted that was what she meant.

"Hmm," said Hermione, returning to her impression of McGonagall. "I didn't think you did. It seems that Rabastan Lestrange, apart from collecting numerous body parts that still haven't been identified, also dabbled in recalling the dead. Well, maybe not the physically dead but the mostly unreachable. If that makes sense."  
"It doesn't," said Snape curtly. "But I believe the wrist bones belonged to Benji Fenwick. The skull with the antlers growing out of it was Caradoc Dearborn and I believe the toes were from one of the Prewett brothers but I'm not sure which one. Rabastan always was fond of his souvenirs."

Hermione blinked and looked unsettled. Behind her, Ron looked thunderous and Snape was reminded that Molly Weasley was the only one of the Prewett children still living. Normally, Snape was not one to withhold unpleasant details but these were not normal circumstances.  
"You were saying?" Snape prompted Hermione.  
She seemed acutely aware of Ron's impatient gaze because she seized Snape's offered lifeline with both hands.

"It's been difficult to decipher from his notes... you know Rabastan was killed, don't you? Good, good. It seems he summoned a dead member of the Order but he wasn't entirely successful..."  
Hermione paused to look sideways at Ron. Ron still looked furious so she began speaking hurriedly again.  
"At least, we think he was summoned wrong and that was what did the damage. It could just be that his experiences were so traumatic that he was damaged before any attempt to retrieve him was made..."

"You can't mean a ghost, then," said Snape, more to stem the flow of words rather than to help Hermione. "No potion would help there."  
"No, I don't mean a ghost," said Hermione, regaining her confidence. "He's real and solid and very much alive. The medi-wizards tell me that physically he's the picture of health."  
"Physically?" asked Snape pointedly.  
"Now, there's that Slytherin cunning," said Hermione triumphantly. "It's his mind that's damaged. He suffers severe amnesia and has reverted to a childlike understanding of some things but not others. For example, he can read a newspaper but can't recognise the word 'salt' - no matter how many times we spell it out for him."  
"Let us hope he likes vinegar, then," observed Snape dryly.

Hermione's lips almost twitched out a smile, "Unfortunately, he retains enough competency to perform some basic spells - especially if he gets hold of a wand, and is continually escaping from St. Mungos."  
"Because St. Mungos has multiple patients to deal with," said Snape slowly. "So, he needs a more permanent nursemaid. And the Order wants to see its own members taken care of."  
"Quite," said Hermione. "In exchange for caring for him twenty-four hours a day, we're prepared to offer you a conditional pardon."

"Conditional on what?" hissed Snape, visions of bedpans and drool swarming into his mind's eye.  
"You will not only be responsible for his care but you also be expected to investigate curative potions."  
"You believe the condition is curable?" Snape asked, even though likely brews had already started to suggest themselves.  
"In the past month, he has already shown signs of improvement. Usually prompted by being introduced to people and places he used to know but also after taking certain potions," said Hermione, her hand waving towards her pocket in a way that suggested she had an annotated list of the potions at her fingertips. "We believe his best chance of recovery lies in an advanced potion."

The thoughts of bedpans and drool were lightened by the prospect of being able to banish the worst of his patient's incapacity through potion-making.  
"Who will fund the potion ingredients?" asked Snape. "If I'm expected to fund it myself, I can tell you now that nobody will hire a former Death Eater."  
Hermione shrugged, "You'll receive your old job at Hogwarts as Potions Master. During the break, you will have sole responsibility for him. During the semester, allowances will be made for your patient to join you in your quarters. Some of the older house-elves remember him from his school days and have volunteered to help supervise him during your classes."

"Who is it?" asked Snape.  
"Sirius Black."  
Snape choked and spluttered. The anger that coursed through him was so strong it was painful. Hermione watched him thoughtfully with her head cocked to one side. The part of Snape not consumed with hatred managed to wonder how accurately she had predicted his reaction.  
"The alternative is Azkaban," she reminded him.  
Snape couldn't speak and he didn't care that Weasley and Longbottom were watching. He wanted to scream that he'd never willingly share the same football field as that mangy mutt, let alone the same living quarters. Only the smugly satisfied look on Hermione's face kept his tongue in check.

"Does he remember me?" Snape spat.  
"Not as far as we can tell," said Hermione. "But he might if he sees your face. That happened with Lupin. Then again, he might not. That happened with Harry."  
She looked away and Snape guessed that there was much more to that story than she would ever reveal to him.  
Snape grimaced and thought before responding, "If he does remember me, he won't accept my help."  
"He's been declared legally insane," said Hermione coldly. "He has no say in the matter."

Snape thought about Azkaban and the reality of the Dementors. The results of long-term imprisonment had been ably demonstrated by Bellatrix Lestrange. Snape considered Sirius Black being completely and utterly dependent on him. He thought about saving the schoolyard bully because he couldn't save the headmaster.  
"Very well," said Snape. "Give me the contract."  
"Contract?" said Hermione, startled.  
"If I know you, Granger, you'll have worked this through thoroughly before coming to me," he said tiredly. "You'll have written a binding contract and gone through it at least three times with a fine tooth comb looking for possible loop-holes. You won't simply trust my better nature - not for something this important."  
She shrugged her shoulders in confession and reached inside her pocket. As she passed the magically binding contract and a quill through the bars, Snape had the unmistakable impression that somewhere Dumbledore was once again smiling down at him fondly.

THE END


End file.
